Can Kit convince Griffin
that he is worth his time and effort? Or will Griffin find Kit is no different from the last five
men he has dated?
Griffin Marks is bitter and jaded after breaking up with
another cheating boyfriend. All he wants is someone to appreciate his passion for
landscaping and love him for who he is without cheating on him. Is being faithful so
tricky? When Kit Smithfield joins Griffin in the club’s steam
room, he opens a door that neither of them can close again. The problem is that Kit’s never
been with a man before, and the last thing Griffin wants is to get involved with someone
who isn’t sure what he wants. Can Kit convince Griffin that he is worth his time and effort? Or will Griffin find Kit is
no different from the last five men he has dated?
About the Author
Growing up in LA, Olivia
always had a keen imagination and a talent for writing stories. Even from her early years, she
hoped to see her name on a book cover and share her tales with others one
After gaining her degree in
Creative Writing, she traded the warm weather of LA for colder and wetter winters in NYC.
There she met her husband Michael, with whom she has a daughter, Emma, and son,
Olivia is a self-proclaimed
romantic, which has helped bless her with a career writing steamy, contemporary romance
novels. She admits that much of her inspiration comes from people watching in corner café’s
and observing couples strolling through local parks.
Beyond writing, Olivia loves
to indulge in red wine and dark chocolate but can’t stand onions of any kind. After a long
day, you can find her relaxing in a warm bubble bath or blowing off steam through
In the future, she hopes to
buy a cottage in Southern France where she can continue to write steamy romance novels,
with her faithful golden retriever, Roberto, lazily sleeping at her feet.
Dev has pined for his cousin’s best friend for years, but no
matter how hard he wishes, Clark sees him as nothing but a friend. And it’s as a friend that
Clark comes to him for help.
Clark’s father is on the brink of losing his house and
the fastest way to make a quick buck is to win the $10,000 prize in the inaugural Sweet to
the Core apple baking contest. Only problem? He’s never baked anything that hasn’t come
out of a box. But Dev has. As a baker, he’s Clark’s best
chance. For the first time, Dev has something Clark wants.
Only problem? Dev needs the prize for himself. The only thing he wants—besides Clark—is
to buy the local lighthouse where he last spent time with his parents before they
died. Working together means opening a lot more than a
barrel of apples, though. They may have found the recipe to love. But will Dev have to give up the only connection he
has left to his parents in order to have it? Or will Clark let his father down? They can’t both
have everything. Or can they?
“I wanted to talk to you about Sweet to the Core.”
“I already told you I’m not entering.”
“What if you had a partner and entered as a
Dev swirled the beer in his bottle. “Why would I do that? I
“As they say, two heads are better than one.”
“Don’t you want to know who it is?”
“Are they an expert in baking with apples?”
“Uh . . . no,” Clark said. “They’re not really an expert in
baking . . . anything. Except homemade pasta. And cock croissants.”
“Then again, I ask, why would I want to do that?” Why
would he split ten grand with someone who couldn’t actively contribute? “Wait.” An expert
in making homemade pasta? Cock croissants? “You want to compete?”
Clark crossed his arms and squinted against the sun. “I
looked the rules up online. That social media component? It’s all about documenting your
journey through the competition. Whoever gets the most cumulative likes at the end gets a
thousand bucks, six months of free advertising, and web design consultation.”
“Yes, I know all this. That’s why I’m not competing. I don’t
have time for all the social stuff.”
“Right. That’s where I come in.”
Dev regarded him through narrowed eyes. What universe
had he been dropped into that Clark wanted to partner with him
for a baking contest? There wasn’t a single part of that sentence that made sense.
“What if I take care of the social media stuff?” Sitting
forward, Clark braced both elbows on his knees and regarded him. “Whenever you’re doing
contest-related stuff, I’ll tag along, take photos, and post them with a catchy caption. Easy. I’ll
have everyone eating out of the palm of your hand. Which leaves you free for the baking. If
we win, we split the prize fifty-fifty.”
Dev pursed his lips. Fuck, it was tempting. So very, very
tempting. Half the prize would speed up his timeline for acquiring the lighthouse and light
keeper’s cottage by months. He could be out of Holland and Zach’s hair that much faster.
Within the year if the one-story cottage could be renovated quickly.
The prospect of spending all that time with Clark, though . .
. Dev both dreaded it and ached for it desperately.
“Why?” he asked. “Why would you do this? There’s a lot of
prep that goes into this kind of thing. It’s not about submitting my bake and hoping for the
best. There are two rounds of—”
“Judging. I remember.”
“It’s not just that,” Dev stressed, trying to drive the point
home that this wasn’t something that would take an hour of Clark’s life before he went on
his merry way. “Whatever I enter in the contest needs to be test-baked several times to
ensure it’s as perfect as it can be. That means I need to check my personal inventory to
determine if I have enough ingredients to cover multiple bakes. If it’s not, I need to buy
some—flour, baking powder, whatever. And this is an apple baking contest, which means
going apple picking to select the best apples. I also need to research other countywide
contests to see what kinds of bakes have won. Granted, I’ll be doing all of this in the
evenings after the bakery has closed, so if we do team up, it won’t interfere with your job.
But it’s still going to take up a lot of your time in the next four weeks. This isn’t one of your
hookups; there’s a time commitment involved.”
Clark opened his mouth to speak. Snapped it closed, brow
furrowing. “You seem to have a very low opinion of my character.”
About the Author
Amy’s lived with her head in
the clouds since she first picked up a book as a child, and being fluent in two languages
means she’s read a lot of books! She first picked up a pen on a rainy day in fourth grade
when her class had to stay inside for recess. Tales of treasure hunts with her classmates
eventually morphed into love stories between men, and she’s been writing ever since. She
writes evenings and weekends—or whenever she isn’t at her full-time day job saving the
planet at Canada’s largest environmental non-profit.
An unapologetic introvert,
Amy reads too much and socializes too little, with no regrets. She loves connecting with
readers. Join her Facebook Group to stay up-to-date on upcoming releases and for access to
early teasers, find her on Instagram, or sign up for her infrequent newsletter.
FBI linguist investigates famous actor’s unspeakable past and discovers an eldritch power the
government seeks to exploit
Cosmically tormented FBI linguist Ekon is the only one B-list
heartthrob Chris will talk to about the Farm, a horrifying cult of which he’s the only known
survivor. As they bond over mysterious pasts and their unsettling attraction, Ekon discovers
an eldritch power his government bosses would love to exploit, one that could spell the end
of everything. While there are queer and romantic
elements, this is a horror novel.
Content Warning: Violence, gore,
horror, mentions of CSA
In a black, Fed-issued SUV, Ekon pulled up outside Daimon’s
luxury apartment at the appointed hour. A trickle of sweat snaked down Ekon’s spine in LA’s
abundant spring warmth, turning cold as he headed through the air-conditioned lobby to
the elevator. Though it should’ve been a bustling, well-secured complex, there didn’t seem
to be a soul around.
Palming his badge, he strode down a long, empty, gray-
walled hallway and knocked at Daimon’s door.
“Mr. Daimon, it’s Agent Adams with the Federal Bureau of
Investigation. We have an appointment?”
There was nothing, not a sound on the other side. Was
Daimon even at home? Was anyone?
Then Ekon heard it: The eerie rustle of the nameless
language. Born not of wind or whistling pipes, it emanated this time from the corridor’s
buzzy fluorescent bulbs as if presaging the coming of something unutterable.
Without even the sound of a loosed deadbolt, the door
yawned open, and a familiar young white man stood before Ekon. He was damp, naked but
for the towel clinging precariously around his hips, and in excellent physical shape.
The world went silent, as if muted by the force of Daimon’s
presence. There was only the fluorescents’ unholy rustling and a high-pitched, constant
scream like the aftermath of a high-powered gunshot.
Then Daimon smiled.
Ambient noise returned with crippling ferocity: Traffic
outside the complex, neighbors within, as painfully intense as if they were all trapped inside
Ekon’s skull. Even his heartbeat deafened him, a muffled thudding in his inner ears one
instant per second.
The young man tilted his head, wet hair dripping onto his
shoulder. His eyes—a bright blue even more piercing than on television—scanned Ekon
slowly up and down with careful sensuousness that left Ekon feeling undressed.
Then Daimon blinked slowly, like a happy cat, and turned
sideways to allow Ekon in.
“They sent you alone?”
Why did he sound so amused?
About the Authors
Together, Texans and platonic
life partners Thursday Euclid and Clancy Nacht write queer novels that span genres, with
intense romances and a seamless shared narrative voice.
They published their first co-
written novel, the m/m rock star romance Black Gold, in 2010, and now have over a decade
of award-winning collaborations under their exquisite belts. Recent titles include the twisted
romance His Fake Prison Daddy and the Phisher King series, in which an uptight federal
agent and a bratty hacker go from enemies to lovers while solving a hate crime.
Though Elder Millennial trans
man Thursday and Gen X gender outlaw Clancy live three hours apart, they are inseparable.
Their friendship is a perfect example of the Grumpy/Sunshine trope, which makes Thursday
very happy. Clancy thinks it’s all right.
Sebastian Howard is the best damn cornerback in the
Or at least he was.
Age and injuries have taken a toll, and while most people
have written him off, Sebastian isn’t ready to acknowledge that at only thirty-two, he’s
already in the twilight of his career.
He signs with the Miami Piranhas intending to prove
Only to realize that the head coach’s son, out-and-proud
Beau Dawson, doesn’t believe he can.
Beau is infuriating but brilliant, and when he offers to help
him on the field, Sebastian wants to say yes, but there’s one thing stopping him: the
unexpected, inconvenient, and all-consuming crush he doesn’t want to have on
But Beau isn’t interested in playing it safe, with football or
with anything else, and soon they’re embroiled in a hot—and secret—affair that would finish
Sebastian’s career if Coach Dawson found out.
As Sebastian falls harder for Beau, he begins to realize that
actually the worst thing in the world isn’t getting benched, but losing the man he
The bartender set a new round of drinks in front of them.
“I shouldn’t,” Beau said.
Because if I have another drink, I’m going to think it’s a
really, really good idea to have sex with you, and it’s not.
Sebastian broke into laughter then, and Beau realized,
humiliation flushing his cheeks, that he’d said that out loud.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have another one,”
Sebastian said, still chuckling as he swirled the straw in his own drink. But then he shot him a
speculative glance, and Beau realized he wasn’t the only one thinking about it.
Sebastian had been checking him out all night.
Sebastian had almost kissed him twice, even when
he was pissed as hell at him.
“Is that why you thought I manipulated you?” Beau asked
before he could stop himself.
You’re the worst. The absolute fucking worst. You’re
supposed to be flirting with the super-hot guy you haven’t been able to stop thinking about
since he showed at camp, and instead, you’re bringing up that he hates you. A+ work, Beau.
Really brilliant. You must be a genius.
At least, Beau thought as Sebastian continued to stare and
swirl his drink, he hadn’t said any of that out loud.
Thank God for small miracles.
“Naw,” Sebastian finally said, another glimmer of a smile
emerging on his handsome face. “You tried your level best not to flirt with me.
It’s not your fault you trying to be all brilliant and professional about it made me hot.”
“No?” Beau squeaked.
Sebastian leaned in, and Beau could smell him again. Lavender
and something darker and richer, and he wanted to lick up the neck that the open collar of
his white button-down shirt had exposed and taste it, too. Wanted to trace the tattoo
peeking out of his collar with his tongue.
Maybe he really shouldn’t have another drink.
Except . . . he could sleep with Sebastian. That
wasn’t off-limits. But if they made it a habit, it would inevitably spill into the locker room,
and then onto the field, and that was the one hard and fast rule his father had given
And he was going to want it to be a habit. They hadn’t even
kissed, and Beau already knew it, as easy as breathing.
No, he should really keep his hands in his lap, and his drink un-
drunk, but then Sebastian’s eyes practically sparkled with the dare of it and he leaned in
another fraction of an inch.
“Don’t you want to know how hot it made me?” Sebastian
crooned in that dirty, sexy voice of his, all low and enticing, and Beau lost the fight with
He reached out and laid his hand on Sebastian’s thigh. His
hard, muscular thigh, hot beneath the light wool of his slacks. He’d already removed his
jacket, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing those rippling forearms that had taken
up residence in too many of Beau’s fantasies already.
He swallowed hard. But didn’t move his hand either.
“I think you do,” Sebastian said lowly.
About the Author
A lifelong Pacific Northwester, Beth Bolden has just recently moved to North Carolina with
her supportive husband. Beth still believes in Keeping Portland Weird, and intends to be just
as weird in Raleigh.
Beth has been writing practically since she learned the alphabet. Unfortunately, her first
foray into novel writing, titled Big Bear with Sparkly Earrings, wasn’t a bestseller, but hope
springs eternal. She’s published twenty-three novels and seven novellas.
Themes: Learning to trust, taking a chance, making a commitment, daring
to dream, letting go of the past, being haunted by the past, established relationship, ex-
cop/PI, former art fraud investigator, mobsters, medium with a ghostly lover, haunted
theater, awesome and heroic food truck, mystery, cold case
Heat Rating: 5 flames
Length: 6 hrs and 21
mins/65 000 words
It is part of a series but could be read as a stand alone. It does not end on a cliffhanger.
Erik Mitchell helped Interpol
bust cartels, oligarchs, and spoiled billionaires for art fraud. As an undercover cop, Ben
Nolan helped bring down a Newark crime family. Now Erik and Ben have started over in
Cape May, leaving their danger-filled jobs behind them, excited about a fresh start and their
Plans to renovate a historic old
theater stir up dangerous ghosts and revive interest in unsolved Mob hits. The curse of a
murdered witch strikes a close friend, old movie props reveal clues to long-ago crimes, and a
shakedown scheme sends Ben’s cousin running for cover.
Time is running out to lift the
curse. The Russian Mob wants revenge on Erik, and the Newark Mob is gunning for Ben. A
grieving ghost seeks justice. Secrets, lies, and deception unravel in the blink of an eye.
Erik and Ben were planning for
happily ever after. But unless they can outwit witches, wraiths, and wise guys, they could go
down in a hail of gunfire and a blast of dark magic—and see their plans go up in smoke.
Blink is a suspenseful MM
paranormal romance mystery-adventure filled with second chance love, hurt/comfort, true
soulmates, awesome food trucks, dangerous secrets, restless ghosts, psychic visions,
powerful witches, angry mobsters, and a very haunted theater.
About the Author
Morgan Brice is the romance
pen name of bestselling author Gail Z. Martin. Morgan writes urban fantasy male/male
paranormal romance, with plenty of action, adventure and supernatural thrills to go with the
happily ever after. Gail writes epic fantasy and urban fantasy, and together with co-author
hubby Larry N. Martin, steampunk and comedic horror, all of which have less romance, more
explosions. Characters from her Gail books make frequent appearances in secondary roles in
her Morgan books, and vice versa.
On the rare occasions Morgan
isn’t writing, she’s either reading, cooking, or spoiling two very pampered dogs.
Witchbane, Badlands, Treasure Trail, Kings of the Mountain and Fox Hollow. Watch for more
in these series, plus new series coming soon!
A freak windstorm. A life-
changing accident. An unlikely helping hand.
A freak windstorm. A life-changing accident. An unlikely
After years spent suffering under the weight of his father’s
expectations, Max Castillo-Grant is celebrating his shiny new law degree by drinking,
partying, and bed-hopping around Seattle. Max isn’t stupid—he knows the good times never
last—but if the world’s going to bring him low, he might as well enjoy the high.
Six years ago, a broken heart and a deep loss turned Ben
Greer bitter and reclusive. Formerly the life of the party, he quit his job, rejected his friends,
and hid from the world. Now, he spends his days alone, working on occasional custom
carpentry commissions, with only his dog, Judith, for company.
Two severe weather events conspire to leave Ben in need of
a full-time caretaker for his injuries, and Max in need of a respectable job. Despite a rocky
start, Ben is begrudgingly won over by Max’s good humor, and the two form a lasting
connection. But emotional wounds leave deep scars, and both Ben and Max are damaged.
Can they find a way to heal hurts that go far beyond the physical before it’s too late?
The second book in the Living Situations series, Bedside Manners is a gay romance featuring an age gap, BDSM, and 4-6 terrible puns about
woodworking. If you like steamy situations, hurt/comfort, and grumpy mountain men, then
you’ll love Ella Fenn’s latest novel.
Pick up Bedside
Manners and let Ben and Max sweep you off
your feet today!
Ben woke to the disconcerting sensation of a tongue
between his toes. He sat up, yanking his foot away, and faced down the wet-mouthed
Judith sat back on her haunches and grinned, her tongue
lolling from her lips as she stared at him with brown eyes that radiated canine intelligence.
She was smart enough to know how to get Ben out of bed, at any rate.
“Menace,” Ben said, scowling as he scrubbed a hand
through his hair. “Delinquent. I oughta take you back to the pound.”
Judith gave an impatient yap, her shaggy tail thumping
against the hardwood. Ben glanced at the clock and yawned. “All right, all right. I’m coming.”
He rose, ignoring the way his knees popped and his neck
twinged—forty-five was forty-five—then dressed in his standard flannel and jeans then
navigated the maze of boxes that lay between him and the stairs. eBay purchases, mostly,
things he’d intended to refurbish and sell but never quite got around to dealing with.
Judith led the way downstairs to Ben’s well-stocked kitchen,
where he poured a bowl of kibble for her and got coffee brewing for himself before flipping
on the radio.
“We’ve got a windstorm advisory for Seattle. It’s gonna be a
nasty one out there, folks, so if you’re planning on hiking, maybe reconsider,”the announcer said as she detailed the day’s weather. A quick
glance out the kitchen windows confirmed her words. The tall pines surrounding Ben’s
isolated property were bending under the wind’s assault.
“Guess we’re staying in the shop today,” he said, more to
himself than to Judith, who was still preoccupied with her food.
Not that staying in was a problem—Ben had been doing it
every day for the better part of five years. There was plenty of gas in the generator and food
in the fridge, so even if the wind blew the power down (which it had been known to do on
occasion), he and Jude could stay tucked up and safe for a good long while. Not forever,
but… well, forever would be the dream, with unlimited supplies appearing as if by magic.
“Come on, little girl,” he said, patting her head. “You wanna
get to work?”
That got her tail wagging, and Ben grinned. He felt the
same way about the workshop, that welcoming cocoon of sawdust and wood awaiting them
across the drive. Originally, it had been a two-car garage with a mother-in-law suite
overhead, but he’d converted the space into his workshop when he bought the place,
putting up a carport between the buildings to link them. The shop was his sanctum
sanctorum, full of tools he’d inherited from his father and some shiny new toys he’d
purchased to make it perfect.
Judith bounded ahead, eager to get to her favorite
place—favorite bed, favorite toys, favorite box of treats—and Ben followed, cupping one
hand over the top of his mug, the scalding splashes barely registering against the worn
calluses he’d built up over the years. No more than half the coffee remained by the time he
made it to the workshop and opened the side door. Judith, true to form, was already curled
up in her bed, the doggy door Ben had installed years before having allowed her ease of
“Shit,” he said, leaning against the heavy wooden door with
a laugh. “That’s some gale, huh, Dorothy?”
Judith didn’t get the joke. Humor was wasted on canines.
Harrumphing, Ben went to his desk, set his coffee between two precarious-looking piles of
papers, and picked up the leatherbound sketchbook he’d need to continue work on his latest
commission of six dining chairs.
Notebook tucked into his back pocket, he went to his wood
rack, selected a sheet of oak, and eased it out. He whistled along with the wind as he
brought the wood to the table saw that dominated the corner nearest the rack. An ancient
relic, the saw had been his father’s, carefully packed and shipped from Montana after the
old man had died a few years prior.
Ben flipped the switch that powered the table then got to
it, carefully cutting the slab of oak down to size. It was rote work, peaceful in its way, and he
lost himself in the rhythm, heedless of the screaming wind outside… until there came a bang
on the roof so loud it made him jump. That was a mistake, since he’d been damn close to the
blade. The torque of the motor kept chewing through the wood, and when it got to Ben’s
forearm, the saw chewed through that too.
About the Author
Ella Fenn is a
romance author best known for telling tawdry tales tinged with a little something
Author of the Living Situations series, Ella wakes at the crack of dawn each day and spends a few hours
tapping at the keyboard before beginning her 9-5 job in marketing and communications.
Using her bachelor’s in
journalism and a master’s in organizational behavior, Ella enjoys diving deep into the unique
traits and tricks that make her characters tick. She believes everyone has a story to tell, and
loves to engage with readers, whether it’s answering questions or discussing the nitty-gritty
of her process.
The way you looked at me when no one else was
The way you held me.
The way you kissed me.
It was everything about you I loved.
The flattening of that smile.
The silence of your laughter.
The loss of your lips.
The distance you created.
The way you left.
The way you destroyed it all.
The way you destroyed me.
It was everything about you I hated.
Everything about you.
And that day you not only broke my heart.
You f*cking crushed it.
Note: Everything About you is a standalone gay (M/M)
second chance romance. Please refer to the content note at the
beginning of the book before buying or reading. You can access that page by using Amazon’s
“Look Inside” feature or downloading the free sample. This info can also be found on my
website. As always, this book doesn’t have a
cliffhanger and an HEA is guaranteed.
I stabbed the up arrow button on the lobby elevator in my
building. My breath quickly returning back to normal and the sweat starting to dry on my
body. I looked forward to washing that sweat and grime from my skin once I got
Maybe even doing more than that under the warm spray of the
The numbers lit up one after the other as the elevator car
traveled down from the sixth floor.
The buzz and click of the outer lobby door unlocking behind
me had me glancing over my shoulder to see if I needed to hold the elevator for whoever
I pulled the sweaty T-shirt from over my shoulder where I had
tossed it, and used it to wipe my face, because clearly I was seeing things. Sweat must have
gotten into my eyes. Or maybe I was lightheaded because I hadn’t eaten anything since
much earlier today.
Or… I was really seeing who I thought I was.
But that couldn’t be. I had to be imagining it. Imagining
Maybe I was having a stroke or some medical issue and needed
to sit down. It was true that I hadn’t been running outside as much as I should be and it
could be my blood sugar reacting to the intense cardio session.
Or I was simply delusional.
The man who had walked through the front entrance paused in
the vestibule lined with the residents’ mailboxes. He appeared as if he had just rolled out of
bed, even though he wore a suit. It was wrinkled like he’d slept on a park bench.
He couldn’t be homeless since he had the code to the front
entrance and that was changed once a month. That meant he had to be a current resident,
even though I had never spotted him in the building before.
However, not only did he look out of sorts, he was talking to
himself. Just like the homeless man who often slept on a bench in Point State Park. The one
who occasionally bathed in the fountain and also fished out the change thrown in by tourists
and locals alike.
Funny, I never once had my wish come true after throwing a
penny into a fountain, but maybe it worked for other people.
I couldn’t hear what the man was saying because of the second
set of doors separating the vestibule from the lobby, but even with his head tipped down, I
could clearly see his lips moving. He could be wearing earbuds and talking to someone on
his cell phone.
Or he could be having a full-blown conversation with himself as
he dug deep into his pants pocket. Most likely for his mailbox key.
Even after drying the sweat from around my eyes, he still
looked so familiar.
The elevator dinged as it arrived on the main floor and the
doors whooshed open. Mr. and Mrs. Callahan from the fourth floor stepped out with their
little yappy, ankle-biter Pomeranian, Mr. Pibbles.
I side-stepped to give the older couple room to pass and also
so that little fucker didn’t take a chunk out of my ankle.
Mrs. Callahan’s gaze swept over me and I knew exactly
I was wearing nothing but black silky shorts that, when sweaty,
clung to my assets, along with running sneakers, ankle-high sports socks and a Penn State U
It also didn’t help that my skin wasn’t a perfect shade of pale
and I sported a wide assortment of tattoos covering my torso and arms.
However, it wasn’t the first time they’d seen me after a run
and, unfortunately for them, it wouldn’t be the last.
Mr. Callahan held the elevator door for me even though it
looked like he was sucking on a lemon while doing so.
They were lovely people.
By lovely, I meant judgmental assholes.
Even so, we needed to coexist since we all lived in the same
building. Instead of flipping him the bird, I gave him a nod and said, “I’m not going up yet,
but thanks,” then took a quick glance over my shoulder again toward the vestibule.
The newest resident must’ve found his key since the metal
door to one of the mailboxes now hung wide open while he rifled through a fistful of
Shaking his head, he continued to talk to himself. The only time
he glanced up was when the Callahans walked past him with Mr. Pibbles yapping in warning.
Mr. Pibbles didn’t like strangers.
Hell, Mr. Pibbles didn’t like anyone except for the
Callahans. And even that was questionable.
As soon as the couple and their orange yap rat stepped out
onto the sidewalk, the man shut the mailbox and turned…
And the revolving Earth came to a complete and abrupt stop,
as if someone had jerked up the emergency brake.
About the Author
JEANNE ST. JAMES is a USA
Today, Amazon and international bestselling romance author who loves writing about strong
women and alpha males. She was only thirteen when she first started writing. Her first
published piece was an erotic short story in Playgirl magazine. She then went on to publish
her first romance novel in 2009. She is now an author of over fifty contemporary romances.
She writes M/F, M/M, and M/M/F ménages, including interracial. She also writes M/M
paranormal romance under the name J.J. Masters.
Life as a concubine to the devious Viceroy Abasi isn’t so
bad. Temaj has food, shelter, and every inch of his skin is draped in emeralds. What’s
freedom worth when weighed against the luxury of the palace?
Solon’s dutiful life earned him the rank of army general to
the pharaoh. But when he’s sent on a diplomatic mission to an emerald mine rather than
into battle, he senses the end of his career and a lonely retirement.
Temaj is gifted to Solon for his stay, but the last person
Solon wants in his bed is a slave sent to spy on him—even if he is a gorgeous, silver-tongued
vixen of a man.
Trouble brews when emeralds go missing. With only a
clever concubine and the viceroy’s harem on his side, can Solon solve the mystery and
escape with his life, or are he and Temaj destined to haunt the walls of the palace
Over the Emerald Valley is a gay paranormal romance
full of snarky banter, dangerous secrets, steamy stolen moments and only one bed. It’s a
stand alone novel within the Immortal Jewels series and can be read first or last with no
spoilers, no cliffhangers, and always a happily ever after!
“Ah, fear not.” Abasi raised a bejeweled finger with
a flourish and beckoned forth a new group. “I’m told you prefer men, and I’m nothing if not
Solon preferred willing partners, not slaves, but he wouldn’t risk
insulting Abasi with his morals.
There was no easy way to get out of this. He’d have
to select one of them.
As the newest line of elegant, supple bodies drew
close, Solon caught the gaze of a tall man who moved with the feline grace of a street cat.
His honey-colored hair hung in long, loose waves over his shoulders, and his pursed lips said
he knew what a gem he was.
That light hair marked him as foreign among all the
black silken tresses of the other concubines. Northern. From distant lands. How did he end
up in an Egyptian harem so far south?
Solon stared. The man wore no paint, no kohl, and
no gaudy decorations, just a simple green linen shift belted at the waist. His beauty needed
Rather than cast his gaze demurely at the floor, as
the others had done, the blond met Solon’s stare…and winked.
A real smile at such a display of gumption replaced
the fake one on Solon’s lips.
Abasi stood, and a servant bustled to move his
chair out of the way. “Come, have a look. Shall I introduce them?”
Solon followed his host to the line of concubines.
There were fewer men than women, but still quite the selection. Six men and nine women in
“That won’t be necessary.” Solon would prefer to
retire alone for the night, but if he had to pick… “I’ve made my choice.”
Abasi knocked him on the back so hard Solon
nearly stumbled. “I like a man who knows what he wants. Which will it be?”
The blond, without hesitation, stepped forward.
Bold. He peered at Solon through half-lidded eyes, gaze intense, as if daring him to suggest
anyone but himself.
“Him.” Solon gestured to the brazen slave, who
only then deigned to lower his gaze.
“Ah, well chosen. That is Temaj, a beauty from the
north and a wild cat beneath the sheets, or so I’m told. My tastes don’t run toward
“Then why have them in your harem?” The
question was out of Solon’s mouth before he could think better of asking. Luckily, the viceroy
didn’t seem offended. Rather, the man laughed.
“A proper harem must contain both, dear Solon, for
how else are you to please all your guests?”
Solon would never understand the lives of the rich
or the royal. When he retired from the army, he wanted only a plot of land, a good mule,
decent tools, and, if he was very lucky, perhaps someone to share it with, though he
expected to end up alone.
“How do you want him?” asked Abasi.
Solon cocked his head. “What do you
Abasi gestured to Temaj, who stood silently as if he
didn’t mind two men discussing him as if he weren’t there. “How do you want him dressed?
Done up? What are your preferences?”
“Oh. Nothing,” said Solon.
Temaj startled and bestowed on him a glower that
would send a dog’s tail sticking between its legs.
About the Author
Lee Colgin has loved vampires
since she read Dracula on a hot, sunny beach at 13 years old. She lives in North Carolina with
lots of dogs and her husband. No, he’s not a vampire, but she loves him anyway. Lee likes to
workout so she can eat the maximum amount of cookies with her pizza. Ask her how much
she can bench press.